


Fight Club

by ObsidianButterfly



Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: F/M, Fingering, Het, NSFW, Oral, Reader fic - Freeform, Rough Sex, Self Insert, Sex, Strangers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-21
Updated: 2016-02-21
Packaged: 2018-05-22 12:31:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6079458
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ObsidianButterfly/pseuds/ObsidianButterfly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Congratulating the fight club champion gets you more than you bargained for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fight Club

**Author's Note:**

> Because I totally play the fight club missions for money, and um, influence points, and eh... the background aesthetic. Totally not for watching a shirtless, sweaty, sexy brute kick the shit out of people. *ahem*

 

Smoke and dust clogs the air despite the size of the arena. The faint acrid smell of sweat underpins the stronger metallic tang of blood that the audience happily bays for. You find yourself jostled by the crowd as you circle the room, trying to gain a better view of the action.

Mobs of men and women cheer frantically, waiving their fists, with bottles of alcohol and cigars passing freely. The level of noise doesn’t matter; underground you are unlikely to be discovered. The fight club in the basement of an abandoned factory in Southwark has been running for months and had yet to be disturbed by police, much to the pleasure of bookie Robert Topping.

You manage to find a gap between bodies to get a clearer view of the fight. The newcomer is impressive you’ll give him that; he has won every fist fight that he has entered for the last few weeks. Originally the spectators were wary of betting their money on such a young, fresh-faced combatant, but he had soon proven his worth and it was likely that most bets tonight were in his favour, including your own.

There was an air of mischief in the newcomer, his teasing stance, the slightly mocking expression. He had a smart mouth, and if he had been any less of a fighter then someone would have taught him a lesson by now and knocked that smug smirk right off his face.

Standing bare-chested, you can just make out the outline of several tattoos across his collar and upper arms. He's muscular, heavy set, and well defined. Not quite the mountain of meat that is his current opponent, who would make anyone look diminutive, but Mr Frye is certainly in good shape, and rather pleasant to look at.

He deftly dodges a right hook from his gigantic opponent, much to jeering of the crowd; some in support, others not. A few shout his name in encouragement, and he actually looks to be enjoying the praise.

Jacob’s torso glistens with sweat in the faint gas lamps, cheeks flushed from heat and exertion. There is the occasional smear of dirt across his pale skin, and dust clinging to his patchwork trousers from the dry and dusty arena floor.

Too busy playing to his admirers in the crowd; the newcomer misses the next attack. With a painful sounding thud of flesh hitting flesh, Jacob is doubled over from a sharp blow to the ribs. Another brutal punch to the back has him sprawled face down on the dirt floor, coughing heavily. However, he's on his feet surprisingly quickly, rolling away from the bigger man's continued assault. It’s clear that Mr Frye is more agile, quicker, despite his bulk, and uses it to his advantage, sprinting lightly around the outside of the ring away from danger.

Jacob taunts his opponent, driving the larger man into an angry frenzy, and forcing a haphazard lunge in his direction. The sound of fists connecting with muscle, heavy grunting and the slap of skin hitting skin echoes in the room, much to the spectator’s pleasure.

The newcomer unleashes a frenzy of quick blows to his opponent’s chest, head and stomach, who doubles in pain, trying to avoid the worst of the hits but to no avail. As soon as he makes the mistake of crouching, Jacobs’s knee connects with his head, sending a spray of blood from a broken nose across the ring.

With a final, heavy elbow to the back of the head, Jacob’s large opponent thuds to the ground, breathing heavy and covered in his own blood.

Victorious, Mr Frye raises his fist punching the air, a smirk at crowds cheering his name plastered across his face.

 

 

 

It seems eerily silent in the arena now, with most of the crowd disappeared to spend their winnings, or grumble over their losses in the nearest pub. The fights are over for tonight, winners congratulated and losers carried away to be patched up. Mr Topping has been in an excellent mood and actually whistled happily handing over your winnings, making a tidy sum on the outcome himself.

You head downstairs from the combat ring into a maze of smaller rooms that must have been used for storage and offices for the upstairs factory. For a small fee to the organisers you can actually meet tonight’s champion, congratulate him in person, and you had hung back to await your chance after other groups of men and women with similar ideas disperse.

Jacob hasn't bothered getting dressed, waistcoat and jacket discarded on a long table next to a bowl of now dirty water, no doubt where he had been cleaning himself up after the fight. The bloodied bandages from his knuckles have been removed and abandoned beside the bowl. Even his dusty top hat lies forgotten.

Lounging in a hard wooden chair, feet casually propped up on a desk in front of him, he's still shirtless, large bruises already visibly forming over pale skin. He watches you, with a mischievous look in his eye as you enter, taking a long swig from a dark bottle resting in his lap.

'Come to congratulate the winner, love?'

'You're quite impressive, Mr Frye.' There’s no point in lying, you might as well give him the praise he is due.

He just smiles at you, as if his impressiveness should be obvious.

Biting your lip, you watch the fighter smirk at you, cursing the stupid idea that you had to come down here. What were you supposed to say to him?

You try for small talk. 'Will you be fighting again soon?'

He shrugs in response, clearly cagy and slightly suspicious about revealing his future whereabouts. 'There's a match in Whitechapel next week, I might pop by if the prize money is good.'

‘Here was I thinking you were doing it for the glory.’ You tease.

Jacob chuckles. ‘I’m a local hero.’ Licking his lips slowly, he indicates the bottle cradled in his lap. ‘Drink?' He asks you, treating himself to another long swallow.

'No thanks.' You decline gently.

It’s already dishevelled, but Jacob runs his free hand through his thick, dark hair, messing it even further than it had been from the fight. It is still damp and clinging to the base of his neck where the water caught him after trying to clean up.

Mischievous hazel eyes watch you, raking over your body inch by inch. Even with the roguish expression, his gaze holds weight. You have a feeling that Jacob could describe you, down to the last detail, hours from now just from memory.

Now that you are down here, it’s a little awkward. You don’t know this man, only what you have seen him do in the sparring ring and heard from the crowd’s gossip. Why were you so curious about him?

'Do you need help with that?' You indicate a small cut just along his unscathed eyebrow. If he’s not careful he could end up with matching scars, but it's not too deep a wound, and looks to have already stopped bleeding.

The champions lip quirks, as if you have said something funny. 'You come all the way down here just to patch me up?'

'No, it's just if you need some help...'

The fighter chuckles. 'Not why women _usually_ come visit.’ He purrs, voice low and suggestive.

Your pulse suddenly quickens at his tone and the look he is giving you. In mere seconds he has shifted the conversation from innocent small talk to something else entirely.

'Oh?'

Rising from the chair, Jacob discards a worn towel that he had draped around his shoulders after rubbing the back of his neck and chest with it. You watch the muscles in his arms flex as he very slowly, and deliberately, runs the towel over his pectoral muscles and down across his stomach. Once finished, he places it, and the half-drunk bottle of alcohol, on a nearby table.

'Usually it's not for talking either.' He smirks, inching very close and forcing you to back up to keep some semblance of distance between you.

Why had you come? Just to meet him? Because he fought well? Because he was good looking... Or perhaps because all of London was talking about were the Frye twins taking on Starrick's empire.

Jacob doesn't stop coming, you end up nearly backed against a wall, his body almost pressing fully against yours.

His voice is low, husky, but you still manage to catch every word.

'The fighting, the crowds, the _excitement_.  Gets people going. Blood pumping, heart racing, adrenaline flowing. All those pent up _passions_ get released...'

'I don't-'

Jacob’s lip quirks, leaning in so close to you that you hold your breath, thinking that he was going to kiss you and entirely not sure how to respond to that. His lips stop however, hovering just inches from yours and you let out a shaky breath.

'Women want to bask in the glory of the win. They get all riled up in the ring. Come meet the prize fighter, think I'm going to be up for a bit of fun. Give them something their husbands, their boyfriends, their partners can't-'

You try to smirk at his obvious self-appreciation. That man has a cheek, to think so highly of himself, that women just fall at his feet... He talks as if he is some prize breeding stallion on show that women would just love to get a piece of.

'I don't think so, Mr Frye.' You try and scoff, but your traitorous voice wobbles as he places large hands against your waist. The warmth and masculine musky smell of his body engulfs you, lips hovering close enough to kiss.

Ok so maybe watching a half-naked man being impressive in the sparring ring had turned you on a little. Ok a lot. But that's definitely not why you were here. Definitely.

Maybe, your brain scolds you; you were trying to convince yourself of that too much.

'Posh girls love a bit of rough.' Jacob whispers against your skin, with a cocky smirk.

'I'm not posh.' You manage to stutter, but he's too close, too distracting. You're pinned and trapped, and he's already inching closer, as if you both were not already pretty much as close as two people could get.

He chuckles lowly as the tips of his fingers trail delicately over the curve of your waist. ‘Posh girls, good girls, shy girls that don’t do this sort of thing…it’s all the same, love. You are allowed fantasy, you’re allowed to enjoy yourself, want a bit of fun, to want _sex_.’

Jacob whets his lips slowly, just the slightest flick of pink tongue as one hand runs through collar length, dark hair. The muscles in his biceps ripple and play as he moves, drawing your eyes downwards across his defined shoulders and chest.

You can feel heat radiate from his body, broad tattooed chest almost pressed completely against yours. You automatically brace your palms on his shoulders to halt his advance from pushing fully against you, he's so wide and large, and all that fills your vision is his naked upper body. You almost jerk away as your palms connect with soft, warm flesh, surprised at the sudden contact of skin against skin.

What were you expecting really; you scold yourself, when you reach out to touch a shirtless man? Idiot.

You have no response for him. Your brain seems to have taken a holiday, pulse hammering in excitement and throat dry, you can practically _taste_ him.

Jacob has already slipped a knee between your legs, parting them delicately, but pushing you off balance and forcing you to lean against the wall and his body. Pouting lips hover just above yours just as his hips press snuggly against your own. The tart smell of cigar smoke and ale assaults your senses as he dips his head.

He's making his move and you can only watch him slip closer; part eager, part terrified.

'Oh god.' A throaty whimper leaves your lips as the champion slips a rough hand between your legs, scrunching the fabric of your skirt, slowly raising it inch by inch until he can reach bare skin. Your knees almost give way in anticipation of his touch.

A large palm cups your groin, and even through the fabric of your underwear you can feel the heat from his touch. Calloused fingers idly graze your bare thigh, leaving you to sucking in deep shaking breaths.

‘ _Please_.’ You breathe, almost inaudible.

‘Please no, or please yes?’

Vison hazy and pulse thudding, you can barely think, let alone string a sentence together. ‘I-I don’t know.’

Jacob smirks, eyes sparking in mischief. He laughs lowly, noise rumbling along his chest. It would have made you weak at the knees if you weren’t already there.

Instead of moving in for a kiss, he buries his head in the crook of your neck and starts his assault there, nibbling and suckling the tender skin.

Your vision blurs from pleasure, head rolling back to allow him better access, your body sagging against his, even as your hips wiggle automatically for more.

Soft lips caress your neck, tongue darting out to swipe at the big pulse point. The whiskers of Jacob’s sideburns tickle your skin, causing you to shiver. You can't contain the small, eager, pleasure-filled noises bubbling up from your throat as his mouth touches all the enjoyable little sweet spots along your skin.

Jacobs’s nimble fingers curl your knickers to the side, exposing your bare flesh to his touch. A calloused thumb strokes across your clit firmly causing your fingernails to embed into his shoulders. You feel the fighter smile against your neck, but he doesn't seem to mind the nails. Torturously slow, his thumb teases in long downward strokes, leaving you whimpering.

You can feel yourself become wetter, inner muscles clenching in anticipation of what else he can do to bring you pleasure. And God, you want more. Your hands wind up in his hair; pulling his head up to look directly into his gleaming eyes. There's a roguish smirk across the fighter’s features, but his pupils are just as wide and dilated, just as excited and needy as you, just better at hiding it.

Does he do this after every fight, you wonder? Seduce the women that come to visit. When the thrill of the win is not enough and the call of testosterone demands that he be satisfied in another way?

Jacob removes his fingers with a whine of disappointment from you, and they come away glistening with your arousal.

You are half carried, half dragged, to the desk where his feet had been propped. Items littering the table are pushed aside quickly to clatter on the floor as your backside is deposited onto the surface.

Hands caress you, even through the fabric of clothing, pawing, fleeting over curves and dips, and never quite making up their mind where they want to stay. Jacob is just as eager, just as desperate as you. Lips skate across your cheek, down the long line of your exposed throat, any patch of skin they can reach.

As he edges you further onto the table top and presses himself between you open legs, he kisses his way back to your mouth. With a brief pause to savour the moment, the champion kisses you for the first time on the lips, hungrily, eager, teeth nibbling at your bottom lip before tongue plunging in to tangle with yours.

He swallows your moans of pleasure, and, just when breathing was becoming an issue, he pulls away a few inches, just enough to eagerly, frantically, tug the long skirts of your dress up. You are pretty sure you heard the distinct tear of fabric, but with his mouth and hands on you, you really couldn’t care.

Skirt pushed to your waist, Jacob quickly rolls your underwear down, leaving you bare and exposed before him. Warm palms push your legs wide apart, caressing your thighs, teasing just short of you clit, which is begging for his attention again, and if he doesn't touch you, you might just scream.

With a sly grin, the fighter drags his abandoned chair across the floor to place it in front of you, and sits down as if he has a meal before him.

You are left looking at him through your slightly parted legs, practically naked from the waist down, breathing hard and lips swollen from his kisses.

Rough hands caress your hips, the outside of your thighs, dragging you easily to the very edge of the desk until your backside is nearly hanging off it. There's barely any room for those broad shoulders between your legs, but Jacob inches forwards, mouth hovering over you. Warm breath tickles across your skin seconds before an ever hotter, wet, tongue trails in one forceful lick from your opening to clit.

Back arching involuntarily, you can barely contain the low squeals of pleasure torn from your throat as he does it again, and again, until you are panting at him, silently begging with your eyes.

With a devilish grin, Jacob settles into his task with precise languid strokes, like a man that has all the time on the world and knows exactly what he is doing. Tongue tracing the outer lips of your pussy gently, circling your entrance and teasing your clit until it’s hard and gorged with blood.

You end up profusely apologising for tugging his hair but his amused chuckles only add to the incredible sensation, as the deep rumbling timbre reverberates through your swollen, stimulated clit. He doesn't mind your moaning, or breathy parting, or wriggling, or even nails scraping his skin as he licks and sucks and brings you spiralling towards orgasm with barely any effort at all.

You fantasise over him, wondering what it would be like to have him just after his fight; hot and sweaty and still covered in dust, taken rough and hard, teeth bared in testosterone fuelled anger. The sight of his dark hair between your legs, the broad bare shoulders, has you wondering as to the rest of him. Would his cock be as big and burly as the rest of him? And by the time your imagination has wandered _there,_ his tongue has done a wonderful job curling around your clit.

Back arching and thighs shaking, you can barely utter a cry in gratification as your muscles are sent quivering in orgasm. 

Panting and sweating you are left is a post-orgasm happy haze, unable to focus on anything but the pleasure you have had.

Jacob crawls up your body from his chair, pausing for a few fleeting kisses against your thighs and neck, the soft scrape of his sideburns tickling your over stimulated skin.  He pauses just at your lips, savouring the moment, before kissing you deeply, tongue dipping in to feed you your own taste.

While you are distracted with his narcotic kisses, a hand slips a hand between your bodies, Jacob’s forefinger teasing at your entrance briefly before slipping inside of you.

Just that slight penetration has you clambering for more, hips wiggling, seeking out more stimulation.

Pulling back slightly, the fighters hair is ruffled and lips wet, he's even better looking than he was in the ring, but you still moan at the loss of his talented mouth and nimble fingers.

You lightly trace the outline of the rook tattoo across his chest with your fingertips as he loosens the belt around his waist and fiddles with the top button of his trousers. The fabric sighs as it pops open, revealing a small trail of dark black hair disappearing further down.

'You got what you came for.’ Jacob gives you a serious look. ‘You want to leave, love?'

Even as he gives you an opportunity to get out and say no, his hand trails delicately the inside of your thigh to the junction of your legs. He presses a thumb against your clit and circles slowly.

His teasing touch was unnecessary, he didn’t even need to try and convince you, with the promise of so much more fun with him you really don't want to leave it just at that.

You shake your head and the champion grins wickedly.

'Good.' He purrs, biting his lip, hazel eyes trailing across you with such a sexual look that tells you he’s already fucking you.

Jacob deftly undoes the rest of his trousers, letting them fall down his hips to gather at his ankles. If he had underwear on, you didn’t see it, and get the first look at him fully, _gloriously_ , nude. The dark hair across his chest, and meandering down his stomach, continues in a light trail down between his legs. His thighs are pretty much as muscled as the rest of him, and you are surprised to find another Rook tattoo at his hip.

Licking your lips, you watch him wrap his palm around his cock, teasing himself with a few strokes.

God, he can barely fit his fingers around himself and you squirm on the table in anticipation of having all that hard thick length inside of you.

Pressing between your legs, Jacob runs himself though the channel of wetness, promising penetration but not quite delivering. The soft head of his cock bumps against your clit, driving you insane with need.

Your hips wriggle automatically, seeking out his body to be joined with yours, but Jacob continues to tease; desperately trying to impale yourself on him does nothing to encourage him.

'Tell me.' He whispers, voice cracking as he is clearly affected by the pleasure he is getting.

 _'Please_.' You beg, back arching, but you don’t have the leverage, and his fingers are tight against your hips, preventing you moving against him.

The champion leans forwards, body tightly fitted against yours, to kiss you deeply. 'What do you need?'

He wants to hear you say it. He’s enjoying the game, the tension.

'I need you inside of me.'

'You want me to fuck you?' He asks, innocently, and teasingly, as if he wasn’t naked and cock hard and ready and pressed between your legs.

As if there would be any other answer. 'Yes.' You reply with a low whine of need.

Smirking, he seems satisfied. More likely he can’t stand the build-up any more either. His chest is heaving with his breaths, and fingers are trembling against your thighs.

He torments you for just a few more moments with the head of his cock _just_ penetration you. Placing thumbs either side of your clit, he begins massaging slowly as he enters you, inch by inch.

You wriggle, hips bucking to meet his achingly-slow penetration, but it doesn't speed him.

By the time Jacob has slowly worked himself sheath inside you, you are practically on the verge of orgasm again.

There is a low growl emanating from his chest that's exciting you far more than it should.

He sets an even, steady pace at first, stroking your clit with his fingers until you are mewling and cumming around him again. He stills as your inner muscles quiver, smug grin plastered across that handsome face.

With a brief kiss, tongue fleetingly caressing your own, the fighter easily flips you over until you are face down against the desk.

You barely have time to let out a surprised squeak at his speed and strength as Jacobs’s searingly hot body covers yours, hips thighs and hips moulding to the back of your own.

Your upper body is pressed tight against the table top as his hand tangles in your hair, pressing your cheek to the cool wood while his other has a death grip on your hip.

His input is furious. Unrelenting. He seeks his own pleasure, satisfied now that you have received yours. Strong hips push his cock into you faster, harder than you thought possible. The desk shakes and inches along the floor with the force of it. Jacob has a better angle to thrust, harsh, sharp, hips slapping against your backside, the noise not quite drowned out by the low moaning from your throat.

He seems to enjoy your praise. You briefly remember how he responded to the crowds cheering for him, calling his name in the fighting ring. Each little gasp and call of his name from you causes him to loose rhythm, desperate moans issuing from low in his throat.

He releases your hair to brace one hand against the desk top, you can feel the fingers of his other hand dig tightly into your hip, so much so that there will likely be bruises there tomorrow.

He kisses the side of your neck, your cheek, the only places he can reach with your body pinned to the table top. Hips lose any sort of rhythm. It’s still harsh, and rough, but you can feel the slight tremble in the thighs that are pushed tight against yours.

You hear him hiss ‘ _fuck’_ from between tightly clenched teeth and he stills his movements, body tight and shaking against yours.

 

 

 

You lie against the desk top dazed and catching your breath for what seemed like hours. You had just been thoroughly fucked by a man you hardly knew, and enjoyed yourself _immensely_.

Jacobs’s warm body is still pressed against the back of yours; you can hear his equally ragged breath in your ear and can just make out his muscled arms braced on the table beside your head to stop his whole weight crushing down on you.

When he eventually inches off of you, the cool air caressing your bare backside causes you to shiver.

With the fighter now moved, you manage to shakily push yourself to a standing position, but are thankful for the table to lean against. You don’t quite trust your legs at the moment.

Jacob is busy rearranging his clothing, tugging his fallen trousers up from around his ankles to fasten them in place. He catches you watching him and smirks.

‘Well that was fun.’

You find yourself grinning back. ‘That’s one way to put it.’

As you try and rearrange your skirts, Jacob picks up your discarded underwear and hands them to you. Too bad they are ruined, damp from your activities, and now dirty from the floor, you tuck them out of sight resigned to having to head home without wearing.

The fighter hands you a cloth to clean yourself off with.

‘Thanks.’ You say, unsure of what to do now. Now that the fun of sex it over, you are not sure what else to say or do, or how to get out the room without making things more awkward.

As presentable as you are going to get, Jacob is busy pulling his shirt and rest of clothing on.

‘Well, um, nice meeting you.’

Jacob turns to face you with a wide grin, breaking out to an all-out laugh.

It causes you to laugh in response; it was pretty absurd, and very awkward.

‘No problem.’ He salutes you with the bottle he has just retrieved, taking a sip from it.

As you head for the door to take you back upstairs and out of the factory, you hear him call after you.

‘The Whitechapel arena is a little more…downmarket. Its outdoors.’

You glance at him, wondering what his point was.

‘You ever do it under the stars, love?’

You smirk at him. ‘Can’t say that I have.’

He gives you a cheeky wink as he goes back to dressing.

Maybe you will head to the next fight after all.


End file.
